


if you ever need a stranger

by reachthetree



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Frottage, M/M, Writer Zayn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-08 09:37:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4299840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reachthetree/pseuds/reachthetree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Zayn is five words into chapter two when his table is flooded.</i>
</p>
<p>AU where Zayn is a writer, Harry doesn't read, and art imitates life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if you ever need a stranger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [onlyhuman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlyhuman/gifts).



> This was such a fun prompt to work with, thank you. There's no stalking, though, hope you'll enjoy it anyway. :)
> 
> Thank you to my lovely betas and friends. Mistakes are all on me, of course.
> 
> Title appreciatively borrowed from Jens Lekman. Enjoy!

**Chapter 1**

Zayn has a plan.

He’s spent weeks getting to know his main character, Liam, and filling a notebook with details he might want to use for this novel. The first draft of the first chapter is merely setting the scene, and Zayn knows he might not even use it later. It needs to be there, though, as a first dive into the world he’s created. He writes it sporadically over almost a week. There’s no rush yet. When he finally considers it done, he also decides that it’s time to step up a notch.

He’s got no idea what’s coming for him.

**Chapter 2**

Zayn is five words into chapter two when his table is flooded. He grabs his laptop with adrenaline-quick hands and holds it up in the air as the cold coffee someone had left spreads over the table, eventually reaching his lap.

Fuck.

“’M terribly sorry,” comes a voice from the other side of the table. Zayn’s computer obscures the person talking, and he feels the liquid soaking its way into his jeans.

“’S all right,” Zayn mutters. It’s not, but he’s not about to say so. At least it didn’t get his laptop; the practically blank page is still staring him in the face, accusing him of not having filled it yet.

He allows himself a few seconds to feel sorry for himself before he stands up, still holding the laptop, to start looking for something to clean up with. But a man who could only be the one guilty is already wiping the table with a rag.

“You didn’t have to do that.” Zayn doesn’t know what else to say, or what to do with himself; he just stands there.

“No, of course I do.” The stranger sweeps over the table one last time and looks up at Zayn with an apologetic smile.

There are curls, is the first thing Zayn notices. There’s also a dimple, and broad shoulders under an incredibly jazzy shirt, and all right. Maybe this day isn’t the worst after all.

“Can I buy you a coffee to make up for this?” He straightens his back up from the crouched position he had over the table, and he’s also tall. Zayn’s brain desperately searches for the right metaphor to describe his legs. It’s only when the stranger’s face falls, Zayn realises he hasn’t answered the question.

“Uh, yeah, sure. Thank you. I mean, there’s no need, but you can. If you want.” The hands clutching his laptop go sweaty.

The stranger lights up. “Good. What do you want?”

“Just a plain coffee will do fine, thanks.” The stranger bounces away to the counter, and Zayn looks suspiciously at the table before putting his laptop back on it. He rubs his hands on his jeans to get rid of the sweat and looks over to the counter.

It’s a busy place, but people are considerate enough to keep their voices down still. Zayn loves coming here to write; he can watch people without being assaulted by noise. There’s a mellow vibe that he appreciates, softly lemon-coloured walls and mismatched chairs and tables.

When the stranger gets back, Zayn realises that he needs to move his laptop. He closes it, and puts it back in his backpack. It doesn’t look like he’ll be very productive today.

The stranger puts two pink cups down on the table and smiles. “I don’t believe I introduced myself,” he says and reaches a hand out. “I’m Harry.” His voice is deep and tranquil, making Zayn feel more at ease than he usually would with a stranger.

He’s got a firm grip, and big hands. “Zayn. Nice to meet you.” Zayn smiles, and Harry laughs as he lets go of Zayn’s hand and sits down.

“Could have been nicer.” He quirks up a corner of his mouth and wraps his hand around the cup. “I’m still sorry, by the way.”

“Really, it’s not that bad. My laptop survived, so we’re all good.” Zayn offers a smile. He doesn’t know what to make of this stranger – most people would have walked away after an insincere apology.

“Can I ask what you were doing on it?” Harry’s eyes look open and interested, and a soft shade of green. Zayn has never written a sonnet in his life, but he kind of wants to write one now.

“I was writing.” Zayn clears his throat. “A novel.”

It’s his third novel he’s working on, and he should probably be used to telling people he’s a writer by now, but he still gets nervous. People can act really strange about this particular job.

“Really?!” Harry’s mouth is open in amazement. “That’s so sick. Now I’m even more sorry for disrupting your flow.”

Zayn’s shoulders relax, and he looks down on his coffee cup. “It’s okay, please. I hadn’t got into the flow yet, anyway.”

“Oh thank god.” Harry makes a dramatic gesture with his hand on his chest, and Zayn has to smile at him.

There’s a beat of silence, and Zayn takes a sip of hot coffee while he thinks of what to say. He likes writing because then he has time to create good conversations, carefully crafting a productive dialogue. Reality doesn’t come with the benefit of time, and Zayn always feels like he needs more time than people give him.

Harry sits leaned back in his chair, the start of a smile resting on his face, seemingly waiting patiently for a reason to bloom.

“What were you doing here, then?” It’s not the best conversation starter Zayn has come up with, but it’ll do. He wants to hear Harry’s voice again.

“Looking for a job, actually.” Harry leans forward. “So if you know of anything, let me know.”

Zayn feels bad for accepting coffee from him now. It’s not like he’s making a ton of money writing, but he gets by. He swallows that down, though, and nods. “Will do.”

“I’m not actually a barista,” Harry continues, with a hint of frustration in his voice. “My actual profession isn’t very lucrative, though, so here I am.”

There’s a pause as Zayn waits for Harry to tell him what his actual profession is, but it never comes. Instead Harry asks him, “What kind of novels do you write?”

He hates and loves this question. Sometimes Zayn can see the disappointment on people’s faces when he tells them, and that’s the worst feeling in the world.

“This one is a new adult novel, about a young man working as a camboy to get through uni. Only, he’s a time traveler, and he can’t quite control it, so sometimes he disappears in the middle of a show and turns up in, like, Victorian times with a pink buttplug up his arse.” Zayn feels his blood start rushing as he talks; for all that he’s having a slow day today, he’s so excited about this idea.

Harry claps his hands. “That’s incredible! Oh my god. I don’t read, but I would read that.”

Zayn can’t control the smile that erupts on his face, making his cheeks almost hurt. “That’s high praise,” he says. “Thank you. Hopefully it’ll be good.”

“Of course it will.” Harry’s face softens. “I mean, I don’t know that, but I really think so.”

It’s a pointless way of comforting, based on nothing, but for some reason Zayn still finds it reassuring. Harry doesn’t know him, so he has nothing to gain from being nice. A warm feeling blooms in Zayn’s chest. This day has gone in several unexpected directions, and most of them have been pleasant.

As they keep chatting, Zayn learns that Harry is studying music, and has a best friend called Louis whom he mentions a lot. He also learns that the way Harry draws his long locks away from his face is positively poetic, and that his eyes are actually more hazel than green. When Harry tells Zayn he has to leave, Zayn doesn’t want him to. But he doesn’t say so; he nods and accepts and doesn’t even ask for his number.

The empty chair opposite Zayn seems to still be occupied by Harry’s spirit after he leaves. Zayn gets his computer out again, and tries to write, but his eyes refuse to focus on the screen and instead keep wandering to where Harry’s face was a short while ago. After ten words that feel like pulling teeth, Zayn gives up and goes home.

As soon as he walks into his and Niall’s flat, though, something clicks. He kicks his shoes off and basically rips his bag open, in a hurry to get his computer out. As he walks hurriedly to his room, he turns it on, and he starts writing before he’s fully seated on his desk chair.

He writes desperately, making a lot of typos as he smashes down on the keys, barely stopping to think. He sees it all so clearly in his head, vivid details flowing effortlessly from his mind. He writes until it’s dark out and he has to squint to see the keys on the keyboard.

Zayn is tired and hungry and he hasn’t even taken his shoes off, but chapter two is done, and he breathes out in relief. It’s not what he expected it to be, but he likes it right now, although he might not feel the same when he’s revising it later.

Chapter two sees Liam running into a curly-haired stranger and becoming enchanted by him.

**Chapter 3**

The next day finds Zayn back at his usual café, at the same table as yesterday. He’s opened a new document, ready for chapter three to begin. The blank page is staring at him. In defiance, he types out a random sentence, but it’s not right. He tries to interview the main character, but it doesn’t inspire him.

When two hours have gone by and all he’s written is “1920s, don’t romanticize, Liam’s wearing powder blue lace panties”, Zayn gives up and goes home.

He’s in the kitchen, sulking and preparing dinner, when Niall gets home.

“All right?” Niall’s face is pinkish from climbing the stairs, and happy.

Zayn shrugs as Niall plops down on a chair, stretching out his legs. “Writer’s block?” Niall does his best to sympathise, but he just doesn’t get it.

Writing is the only thing Zayn has ever cared about being good at. He used to get a lot of praise for his drawings, both from teachers and his friends, and while it was nice it didn’t affect him. He also used to get teased for not being good at football, and while that wasn’t nice it didn’t affect him. But the first time someone told him that he had written well, it felt like coming home. It’s all he wants to do. And even though he’s got two published novels under his belt now, he still doubts everything every time he hits a roadblock.

Zayn chops onions sadly. “Chapter three doesn’t want to come alive,” he says through a thin mist of onion-induced tears. It sounds incredibly melodramatic.

“That sucks, bro. I’m sorry.” Niall has genuine care in his voice and Zayn feels bad for thinking that he doesn’t get it. “Anything I can do to help with the food?”

“Thank you.” Zayn turns his head away from the cutting board to give his eyes a break and blinks rapidly. “You can boil rice, if you want.”

Niall gets on his feet and joins Zayn. It’s nice, the easy cooperation and comfortable silence between them.

When they’ve eaten, Zayn gets his art journal out. If he can’t write today then at least he’s going to create something. He takes a pencil and lets his hand guide him, and it’s only when he stops to consider the right bounce of the curls that he realises who he’s drawing. Zayn bites his lip, and continues. When the pencil lines are done, he gets his watercolours and gives the eyes a soft green splash, bleeding out on the cheeks and forehead.

He goes to sleep and knows he has to see Harry again.

*

But there’s not a lot he can do to find Harry again, is there? Zayn considers hoping that Harry will turn up at the café again, but that environment doesn’t feel good to him after the recent struggles he’s had there, so instead of walking down the street he gets on a bus into the city.

The place he ends up in is incredibly busy, and the coffee costs more than he should be spending, but he’s charmed by the bright green walls, and the fact that the menu is written on one of them in swirly handwriting. 

He’s taken a sip of his plain tea and started considering exactly where in the 1920s Liam should end up when he’s interrupted by a subtle cough.

“Hello, stranger.” Harry smiles down at him and Zayn’s mouth drops open.

“Hi.” He could ask so many things, but none of them come out. All he says is, “do you want to sit down?”

“I would love to.” Harry’s wearing a thin black top, almost transparent, and somehow it goes perfectly with the smoothness of his voice. “I can’t order anything, though,” he says as he pulls out the chair opposite Zayn. “This place is too expensive for me.”

“So what are you doing here?” Zayn has closed his computer, not wanting to waste this chance it seems like fate has given him to talk to Harry again.

“Guess? Job hunting, of course.” There’s a tired shadow on Harry’s face, and Zayn wishes he were rich so he could hire Harry as his personal assistant or something.

“I see. Can I buy you anything?” Zayn regrets the words as soon as he’s said them, but the look on Harry’s face makes the regret wash away completely.

“Really?” There’s a twinkle in his eye, and god, Zayn doesn’t know a word for the combination of delighted and smug Harry’s displaying.

He nods. “You bought me something last time, it’s only fair.” It’s a weak excuse, and Harry doesn’t look like he’s buying it.

“All right. A black coffee would be lovely, thank you.”

Zayn can feel Harry’s eyes on him as he walks back up to the counter, and briefly wonders if it’s wise to leave his computer with a stranger. Even if said stranger has a vibe that’s closer to woodland creature than sneaky thief.

Harry doesn’t steal his computer. Harry thanks him profusely for the coffee, and inquires him about the current chapter. Harry nods eagerly when Zayn pauses to find the right words to string into sentences.

When Harry has to go, Zayn takes a deep breath and plunges. “Can I have your number?”

The smile that erupts on Harry’s face is nothing short of sublime. “Only if I can have yours,” he says and winks.

When Harry disappears out of the door, the rest of the world disappears with him. Zayn is in a speak-easy with a panty-clad Liam, being flustered by a charismatic curly-haired barkeep. He reemerges two hours later when a café employee comes up to him and semi-politely asks him to either purchase something or leave.

Zayn smiles at them and starts packing up. He’s written almost a whole other chapter, and in his phone Harry’s number awaits; nothing can damper his mood.

“You look happy,” Niall observes when he gets home.

“I am,” Zayn responds. “Chapter three finally learned who’s boss.”

That makes Niall laugh. “I’m happy for ya, mate. Does this mean you can hang out tonight?”

Zayn nods. “Let’s have an us night,” he agrees. “It’s been too long.”

Living with Niall is perfect for Zayn; he knows and respects that Zayn needs a lot of time by himself, exploring the worlds in his own mind, but he also lets Zayn know that he’d like to hang out in a way that isn’t pressuring. Zayn loves Niall a lot.

They spend the evening with a new film Niall wants to see, something with lots of violence and unnecessary heterosexuality, and don’t watch it as much as they make fun of it.

It’s nice and easy and when Zayn goes to sleep that night, he thinks, this was good. This day was good.

**Chapter 4**

‘how’s the great novel coming? ;) xx’

The next day Zayn opts for writing at home, since he splurged on café expenses the day before. He’s aimlessly looking around the room, avoiding the blank page that once again taunts him, when his phone buzzes with a text. From Harry.

He should really start turning his phone off when he writes.

Zayn stares at the winking emoji. He really shouldn’t be surprised, considering Harry winks in real life, but he has a hard time putting the mystical physical being together with this cheesy emoji in his head. The creative cogs in his head start to move with the contradiction, and he drops his phone, and beasts the blank page.

Today, Liam ends up in 1850s Ireland wearing fuzzy pink handcuffs. He writes about the contrast between dry flour and wet lips, about the glimmer on grey streets in the rain, about the beautiful and the gritty. Before he knows it, three hours has passed, and he’s hungry, thirsty, and a bad texter.

He stumbles to the kitchen to make himself tea, suddenly noticing that it’s raining outside. As the kettle boils, he makes himself a sandwich, and bites into it while he types a response to Harry with his free hand.

‘sry for the late reply, was writing aha! It’s coming along I think (: how are you? Xx’

They don’t have any lemon at home, so Zayn drips a drop of bottled lemon juice into his tea. It doesn’t taste the same, but the slight tanginess will do.

He’s just considering if he should try to get some more work done, or if he should call it a day, when his phone beeps and he almost drops his tea.

‘just finishing up my work for the day! How would you fancy a drink? Xx’

Zayn still doesn’t know what Harry’s “work” is, and that alone would have been enough for him to say yes, even if he wasn’t embarrassingly eager to be under the light of Harry’s smile again.

They meet up at a pub Zayn has never been to before, The Owl and Pussycat, but Harry swears by it. It’s tiny and loud and charming. Zayn’s unsure if the glass he’s drinking from has actually been washed – there are some suspicious stains on the side – but he drinks nonetheless.

Somehow, Harry manages to snag them a table, and they sit down next to each other, knees bumping under the rough wood, leaning in closer to be able to hear each other talk in the buzz of voices and music.

“What do you think?” Harry’s drinking a dark beer, licking foam from his lips.

Zayn looks down. “I think it’s inspiring,” he says.

Harry laughs, and Zayn tries not to watch his pink lips as they stretch out in joy. “That’s how you know you’re out with an artist,” he grins, and Zayn blushes. “I’ve never heard anyone call a pub inspiring before.”

I’ve never been to a pub with you before, Zayn thinks. “Anything can be inspiring under the right circumstances,” he says instead.

“What are those, then?” Harry looks genuinely interested now, and Zayn is very aware of their legs touching.

“It’s like… If you’re in the right mindset, like, if you’re open to ideas, if you trust your imagination.” Zayn clears his throat. “Yeah.”

“Sounds lovely.” Harry smiles and takes a drink. He doesn’t get it, and Zayn doesn’t mind.

The clank when Harry puts his empty glass down makes Zayn jump in his seat.

“Sorry.” Harry puts a calming hand on his arm, and wow, those are big hands. “I need another. You too?”

It’s all Zayn can do to nod and try to soak in the skin to skin contact in the few seconds before Harry’s warmth disappears to the bar.

It takes two more pints for the lights to start to blur. Harry’s thigh has been a presence against Zayn’s all night, except for when he went to pee. While he was in there, he also got a marker out of his pocket and wrote his name in gangly letters on the wall. Now everything is soft, like the world has an Instagram filter, and Zayn’s hand is on Harry’s thigh. How did it get there?

“Do you find that inspiring, too?” Zayn is vaguely aware that Harry is making fun of him, but he can’t bring himself to care.

“Yes,” he says, and squeezes it, feels Harry tense under his hand.

Zayn feels floaty, and there’s a smile on his face, and then Harry lays his hand over Zayn’s. It covers it completely, and Zayn looks for Harry’s eyes. They’re hazy, or maybe Zayn is. He feels like he’s lost in a forest but he doesn’t want to find his way home.

“I think the next step is a kiss.” Harry’s mouth is moving. He’s saying something. Something about kissing.

Zayn nods, as fast as he can muster in this unsteady world. He licks his lips and they taste like beer. Then Harry’s lips come closer, and Zayn closes his eyes.

The next thing Zayn knows, adjectives are shooting through his head like gunfire. Pliant. Pink. Wet. Warm. Eager. Earnest. Harry’s hand is still on his, both resting on Harry’s thigh, and Zayn has lost every word he’s ever known. They dissipated in Harry’s mouth.

He takes a deep breath when they part. “Sublime.” He’s mumbling, and Harry’s laughing again, and his hand is big and warm and there.

*

Zayn has never been able to write when he’s hung over. Alcohol hits him badly, making even sitting up too much to bear (something Niall has always made fun of him for).

But today when he wakes up, he has a string of words in his hurting head, so he makes a note on his phone before scrambling through his bedside drawer for a paracetamol. He takes it, makes himself a cup of tea, and then sits down to write in just his boxers.

Unsurprisingly, Liam runs into a boy with green eyes and an inviting smile. He can still feel the welcoming pressure of Harry’s lips on his, and he writes about kissing, about drunken choices and days after them, about visions of woodland creatures in dodgy pubs.

He makes it about a thousand words into the chapter before his tongue gets so dry it’s practically glued to the roof of his mouth, despite the tea.

Desperately trying to work up some saliva, Zayn pulls on a t-shirt and heads for the kitchen. It’s quiet in the flat, only the buzzing from the fridge, and when Zayn turns the faucet on the gentle stream sounds more like a waterfall to him. He wonders what Harry would look like bathing in a waterfall. Would he be as beautiful with his curls straightened out by the water? How much cold water would it take for his pink lips to turn blue? Does he wear a bathing suit or is he naked?

Zayn closes his eyes. He doesn’t even know this boy, man, whatever, and he’s obsessed with him. Shaking his head, he takes a sip of water before filling the glass back up to return to his desk and keep writing. Maybe about bathing in a waterfall.

However, he makes the mistake of checking his phone first.

‘I had fun last night xx’

No winking emoji this time. Does that make it more serious? Zayn is too dehydrated for this. He brings his phone with him to the desk, and sips water as he ponders what to reply. A simple ‘me too’ wouldn’t be a lie, but it would be boring. He chews on his lip.

‘same here. We should do it again soon (: xx’

That’ll do. Zayn decidedly turns the sound off, puts his phone down with the screen facing the wooden surface of the desk, and writes until the chapter is done.

When he comes back up for air his hangover has subsided, but he’s starving. The first thing he does after closing his computer is checking his phone. When he sees Harry’s name on the screen he grins. God.

‘how soon? : ))) xx’

Zayn wants to say, _now, come over now, I want to taste you_. He doesn’t.

‘Are you free tomorrow? Xx’

Tomorrow. What a wonder of patience he is. He would cringe at himself, because crushes are embarrassing, but his face is busy smiling. Just as he’s considering what pizza to order, Harry’s reply pings for his attention.

‘definitely free tomorrow. No job, remember? :p xx’

Zayn laughs out loud, despite himself. It’s not even that funny. He’s still smiling when he sends his suggestion.

‘come over to mine? (: xx’

**Chapter 5**

“Didn’t you just meet this bloke?” Niall looks amused. “And he’s already coming over?”

Zayn hums. “He’s great, okay. You’ll like him.”

He’s dragged himself out of bed early to have breakfast with Niall, something he only does when he wants something. Say, for example, permission to invite someone he barely knows into their home.

“I mean, do what you want,” Niall says through a mouthful of toast. “If you start to scream I’ll check that no one is being murdered.”

Zayn’s thoughts flit briefly to what other things they could do that would cause screaming, and it must be evident on his face, because Niall rolls his eyes.

“Relax, I know the difference between sex screams and murder screams.” He laughs, which does nothing to make Zayn less embarrassed.

The morning is dark outside, and it’s too early for Zayn to have any appetite. He sips a cup of tea with milk, and thinks about going back to bed, but this jittery feeling his plans have caused him might prove that difficult.

Niall sees him off with a fond hair ruffle and “don’t fuss too much about cleaning, if he’s a keeper he’ll deal”. It brings a smile to Zayn’s face. He’s still going to clean, though.

And cleaning is what he spends the entire day doing. He makes a half-hearted attempt to go back to sleep, but his limbs refuse to relax. When it’s nearing afternoon and Zayn considers cleaning the windows – something they haven’t done since they moved in some two years ago – he tells himself that it’s time to stop.

He braves checking his phone for the first time in hours, having been scared that Harry will cancel. But that’s not what the text waiting for him says.

‘you never specified what we would be doing? So I know how to dress (: x’

Zayn has a lot of ideas for an ultimate Harry look, and none of them involve practical clothes. His stomach surges as he taps out a very sensible reply.

‘I was just thinking a film or so (: whatever makes u comfortable xx’

He still has no idea what he will wear himself.

*

Niall makes a very poor job of concealing how curious he is. He pretends to be doing the washing up, which is an extremely bad cover, considering he usually leaves it as long as he can. Zayn is too nervous to call him out on it, though. He smooths his t-shirt down for about the hundredth time when the doorbell rings, hoping he won’t look too skinny. Unless Harry likes the poor artist vibe, in which case, swell.

“Hello.” Harry waves, and Zayn motions for him to come inside before he remembers that he should probably talk too.

“Hi,” he manages, and then Niall pops up behind him. Naturally.

“Hiya! You all right?” Niall shakes Harry’s hand vigorously, and Harry raises his eyebrows but goes along with it.

“Yeah, mate, great. I’m Harry, nice to meet you.” Harry’s still in his pointy boots and Zayn feels like his feet are underdressed. Niall has no such qualms.

“I’m Niall, I also live here. So don’t try to murder Zayn!” He laughs loudly, and Harry looks unsettled but smiles.

Zayn clears his throat.

“Sorry!” Niall throws his hands up. “I’ll leave you to it. Nice to meet you, Harry.”

And then he trots off to his room and Zayn can relax somewhat. “Sorry about that,” he says. “You can take your shoes off now, if you want.”

“He seems nice,” Harry offers as he unzips the black suede.

He’s also wearing black jeans, and a moss green jumper, but the socks that are revealed have a bright kitschy watermelon pattern. Harry notices Zayn looking and shrugs. “Laundry day.”

“Been there,” is all Zayn can think of saying.

He gives Harry a very quick tour of the flat, which consists of pointing to every room and saying its name, before leading him to his room.

Zayn has cleaned, and organised his bookshelf, but he’s still nervous when he opens the door. Harry looks around, and unlike most people Zayn has had in his room, doesn’t walk up to the bookcase and starts inspecting.

“I like your window,” is what he says, and then he promptly sits down on the bed. “This is nice.” He grins.

“Thanks?” Zayn is still standing in the middle of the room, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“So, are we watching a movie or what?” Harry looks amused again, like he can tell how awkward Zayn feels.

Zayn nods, and sits down a careful distance from Harry’s tempting thighs. He opens his laptop, which is ready to go, placed on a chair by the middle of the bed to offer a fair perspective for the both of them.

“Are you ready?” He looks back at Harry before pressing play. Harry nods, and Zayn sits back. He’s trying not to take an unnecessarily deep breath to see if he can catch Harry’s scent.

The movie they’re watching is Big Hero 6. When the accident happens, Harry wipes slowly under his eyes. Zayn pretends not to notice. They watch in silence for a while, until Harry suddenly speaks.

“Do you have any siblings?” He’s watching Zayn intently, and missing the film, probably, but Zayn loves his attention too much to say so.

He nods. “Five sisters. You?”

Harry smiles. “Just the one sister,” he says. He’s quiet for a beat, the noise from the movie the only sound until he speaks again. “I miss her.”

Zayn nods. Sometimes he gets lost in his fictional world, but he knows what Harry’s talking about. He gets his phone out and types into the family group chat, ‘hey, hope you’re all doing good, miss you. Love you xx’

When he looks up, Harry is still watching him. He smiles. “Do you mind if we pause for a bit? I want to call Gemma.” Zayn nods before Harry can add, “that’s my sister.”

He nods again, and leans forward to pause the stream. Harry looks back at him for a second before leaving the room, and then Zayn can hear the bathroom lock click.

It’s sweet. Harry is sweet, and Zayn thinks chapter five is going to be about family. Maybe Liam can save a family from a burning building? He gets up, opens a new document on his computer, and writes that down.

When Harry comes back, he’s still typing out thoughts and ideas, random words he might want to use, and he reluctantly leaves his desk to take a seat on the bed beside Harry again. He presses play, and Harry’s close enough that he can feel his body heat but not close enough to touch.

Zayn swallows and wonders if Harry is listening to the sound. Then he thinks about the sounds that would happen in chapter five: crackling of fire, people coughing thickly, panicked screams.

At the end of the movie, Harry cries for real, not even bothering to hide it. “Sorry.” He sniffles and laughs, embarrassed, and Zayn wants to kiss his cheeks, taste the salt.

“Nothing to apologise for,” he says instead, softly.

And then he braves taking Harry’s hand. Harry looks sideways at him, then, eyes wide and unsure. He’s never seen that look on Harry’s face before. It’s just as beautiful as the other ones.

“So,” Harry says, mouth twisted in a slight smile. “What do you want to do now?” His voice is deep and Zayn doesn’t miss the suggestion in it.

He swallows. Harry’s fingers in his are long and strong, surely capable of taking him to heaven and hell. But there’s another itch in Zayn’s fingers, one that doesn’t involve skin and flesh.

Zayn needs to write.

“I think it might be time to call it a night.” He squeezes Harry’s hand, hopes that communicates that he wants him. Just not right now.

But Harry’s face falls. “Oh, okay.” He makes to get up, says, “I’ll get out of your way,” but Zayn doesn’t let go of his hand.

“Wait.” Harry turns his head to look at him, questioning, and Zayn licks his lips. “May I have a goodnight kiss?”

A grin spreads on Harry’s face. “You may,” he says, and then he straddles Zayn’s legs where he’s sitting on the bed. He lets go of Zayn’s hand to take his face between his hands, and then his lips are there.

They’re even better than Zayn remembered, a lot better when he’s sober. Harry kisses carefully, like Zayn is a delicately constructed work of art he doesn’t want to ruin. He smells like cologne and skin and Zayn finally allows himself to breathe him in. He urgently puts his hands on Harry’s waist and opens his mouth for him; _ruin me_.

When they break apart, Zayn is hard in his jeans, straining against the zipper. “Good night,” Harry whispers in his ear, and Zayn shudders. Fuck.

Harry gets up, adjusts himself with a sly smile, and Zayn walks him to the door on wobbly legs. When he’s left, Zayn rushes back to his room to get himself off. It’s fast and desperate, the itching to write in his fingers still there. He cleans himself up haphazardly with some tissues and then, finally, he sits down at his desk.

He writes feverishly until the small hours of the morning, when his vision starts to blur and he’s making more typos than ever. Zayn’s been awake for almost twenty-four hours. As he brushes his teeth lazily, he realises he’s never had this many good writing days in such a short amount of time for as long as he can remember.

It’s going so fast. Zayn exhales deeply when he hits the pillow, his head sinking into it and sleep nudging him within seconds. A week ago he had only just started on his draft and now he’s five chapters in, with a new character in his life. It might just be his imagination, but he thinks he can detect Harry’s scent on his sheets as he falls headfirst into a dreamless sleep.

**Chapter 6**

Zayn doesn’t wake up until Niall comes home from the music shop the next day. He’s jostled awake when the door slams shut, and he blinks awake to realise that the sun is on its way down. Great.

He pads out to the kitchen to find Niall in the process of cooking. “You’re a blessing,” he murmurs.

Niall rolls his eyes. “Good night last night, eh?” He waggles his eyebrows and Zayn nods.

“Not like that, though. Harry left pretty early. I was up writing.” Zayn sits down at the table. “Can I help with anything?”

Niall spins around to look sternly at him. “You mean to tell me that you threw out a pretty boy so you could write instead?”

When he puts it like that. Zayn bites his lip. “Do you think I should text him? I mean, we left it on a pretty good note, but.”

“I think it wouldn’t hurt.” Niall turns back to the cutting board. He mutters something to the mushrooms he’s handling, Zayn can’t quite hear what. Something about useless bohemians.

He stares at his phone for over a minute, thinking about what to say to Harry. What he settles on is the most simple and honest thing he can think of.

‘hope I didn’t scare u off last night, just needed to write. Defo want to see u again if ur up for it !! xx’

That should do it. Zayn presses send, and put his phone on the table with the screen facing downwards. He does his best to listen to Niall talk about his boss’ latest haircut – Zayn is fairly certain that Niall has a crush on him, but he’ll let him figure that out himself – but his phone doesn’t let itself be forgotten. When it finally buzzes, Zayn startles. Niall laughs at him.

“You’re so smitten,” he teases.

Zayn just waves a ‘shut up’ hand in his direction and opens the text.

‘believe it or not, I’ve had worse rejections :P thank you for the clarification though! I’d love to see you again soon too xx’

The thought of Harry being rejected seems absurd to Zayn. He shakes his head at his phone, vaguely aware that the kitchen is starting to smell like food. Harry wants to see him again, though. Zayn smiles.

*

Chapter six takes its time. Zayn decided that he needed some time before seeing Harry again, to slow things down a bit. When he sits at his desk, mind wandering to Harry’s eyes and lips and hands every other sentence, he has a hard time remembering why. He strokes the smooth wooden surface and wishes it were Harry. It’s all ridiculous.

It doesn’t get easier since Harry keeps texting him memes. Zayn didn’t even know what the sad frog meme was, and apparently there are a lot of variations of it too. He’s in the middle of Liam trying to explain to his mum why he keeps disappearing and turning up filthy and naked a week later when his phone pings with a sad frog looking like Nicki Minaj. Zayn laughs so loudly it echoes in the room.

They’re supposed to hang out again on Friday, which is three days from now. Zayn can wait three days; he didn’t even know Harry just over a week ago. But more has happened in that week than in the past six months and it feels like forever.

The days drag by. Zayn goes down to the café to write one day, but ends up mostly writing useless snippets in his notebooks, fragments of poetry that gets progressively dirtier as the afternoon goes by. When he’s got Harry in his mind, even the drag of ink against paper seems sensual.

Zayn sighs and goes home with the amount of words in the ‘chapter 6’ document as when he got there.

*

When Friday finally comes, Zayn is supremely nervous. How their last meeting ended is embedded in his memory in high definition clarity. Harry’s hands on his face and lips, tongue, and that knowing smile when he left. A voice at the back of Zayn’s mind reminds him that he doesn’t know what Harry’s mystery job is; he pushes that aside, and takes his time in the shower to get extra clean. It doesn’t hurt to be prepared, he tells himself.

It was Harry who suggested he just come over to Zayn’s again, which really does point toward the possibility that he wants to… Do things. Zayn swallows and puts his towel over his desk chair.

Niall brings home takeaway and they eat together before he leaves again to go to the pub with some friends.

“Good luck,” he says and pats Zayn on the back.

Zayn swats his hand away and pretends he isn’t smiling. “Whatever. Go have fun.”

Niall laughs, slams the door, and then there’s nothing for Zayn to do but wait for Harry. He brushes his teeth, and puts some music on. It’s been a while since he found something new to listen to; this playlist is several months old. He should get on that.

When Harry rings the doorbell, Zayn jolts and almost drops his phone. Christ. He stands up, puts his phone back into his pocket, and hurries to let him in.

Harry is wearing a sheer shirt, leaving very little to the imagination. “Hi,” Zayn says to Harry’s nipples.

“My eyes are up here,” Harry responds with laughter in his voice.

Zayn’s face goes hot. He looks up to Harry’s grin. “Right,” he says helplessly. “Come in.”

“Thank you.”

Zayn forces himself to look away as he closes the door behind Harry.

“How’s writing been going?” Harry asks while he hangs his jacket.

“Slow.” Zayn notices that Harry is wearing plain black socks this time. “How have you been?”

Harry shrugs. “Lots of schoolwork. Not enough paid work. The usual.”

Zayn nods, not quite sure what to respond to that, but luckily Harry keeps talking.

“Louis thinks we should get a pet rat, but I’m skeptical. If you’re getting a pet, why not a cute one?”

“Rats are cute, aren’t they?” Zayn has never considered the cuteness of rats before in his life.

Harry frowns. “I thought you’d be on my side, but apparently Louis’ powers extend even to people he’s never met.”

“No, no, I’m on your side.” Zayn offers a smile. Thankfully, Harry takes it. He smiles back and gestures to his feet.

“I’m all undressed now, so.”

Right. They’re still in the hallway. Zayn hopes he isn’t blushing when he says, “oh, yeah, come on.”

He walks to his room, and Harry follows, silent on socked feet.

The music is still playing in his room, a sultry r’n’b song pouring from the speakers.

“Nice,” Harry comments and sits down on the floor. “This your kind of music?”

Zayn sits down across from him, legs crossed. “Yeah.” He nods. “This and anything else I find soothing. I like a calm vibe.”

Harry nods thoughtfully. “I can understand that. But music is all about joy for me, so I mostly listen to more energetic stuff. A good melody is everything.” His hands are moving as he talks, and Zayn is captivated.

“Do you want to make a playlist for me?”

It’s like Harry lights up. “Of course! I bloody love making playlists. Do you have Spotify?”

Zayn nods. He can’t help but smile at Harry’s enthusiasm; it’s contagious.

It’s dark out, and the only light in Zayn’s room is the dimmed lamp by his bed. From where Zayn is sitting on the floor, he can just make out Harry’s silhouette, crowned by a fuzz of hair, bobbing to the beat of the music.

“This is one of my favourite bands,” Harry tells him as he puts on a new song. “I saw them live the first time when I was sixteen, and I’d never heard of them, and the performance just burrowed right into my soul. That’s when I knew I wanted to do music.”

He closes his eyes and sings along to the chorus, and Zayn watches his lips move.

“Beautiful,” he comments when Harry’s stopped singing.

Harry looks down and smiles. “Thanks.” Then he leaves his position by the computer and joins Zayn on the floor. He sits down so close that their knees are touching.

“What do you want to do now?”

Zayn swallows. The next song on Harry’s list has come on, and it’s a whispery guitar ballad. It sounds like a cloud and Zayn wants Harry to take him to heaven.

He puts a hand on Harry’s knee and bites his bottom lip before looking up, into Harry’s eyes. Harry leans forward then, and Zayn quickly releases his lip from his teeth.

Harry opens his mouth for Zayn’s tongue almost immediately, and Zayn follows. He lets himself be hungry, allows his hand to press down on Harry’s knee, and doesn’t hold back a pleased sigh when Harry’s hand finds his neck and grips it gently.

They kiss for several songs, and after a while Zayn braves putting his hand on Harry’s chest, thumbing at his nipple through the thin fabric. Harry makes a noise low in his throat and Zayn feels a rush of blood to his groin. He’s warm all over, Harry’s hand on his neck especially hot.

“Zayn.” Harry rests his forehead against Zayn’s when he’s broken the kiss. “I want to get off.”

Zayn swallows. “We can do that.” He’s whispering, as if the moment could break from a noise too loud. “Please.”

Harry smiles, and then he stands up. He pulls his shirt off, casts a glance at Zayn and then unbuttons his jeans as well, peeling them off his legs. Zayn copies him, stands up and strips, and then they’re both in just pants, and there’s no time to look before Harry kisses him again.

He tastes like toothpaste and man and saliva, and his warm skin against Zayn’s makes everything hotter. His cock is pressing into Zayn’s hip, and when Zayn presses him closer, he whines hotly into Zayn’s mouth. Zayn moves his mouth slowly, wants to touch every millimeter of Harry’s mouth with his, and holds a gentle hand on his neck. He can feel Harry’s pulse and it’s making him feel so close to him.

They keep kissing, and Harry moves his hands from Zayn’s waist to remove his own underwear. Zayn tries not to notice, but he’s extremely aware of every movement Harry makes and the fact that they’re getting him closer to naked Harry. When Harry has to break the kiss to kick his boxers off, Zayn steps back to just watch for a second.

With clothes on, Harry’s body is long and slender, defined by broad shoulders. That’s all still there, but now you can also see the little curve of fat over his hips and a hint of belly, all the while his hipbones are still visible. His nipples are puffy and look like they’re ready to be pinched. And his cock… Hard and thick, it’s standing out from his body in a way that would make Zayn laugh if he wasn’t’ so aroused. It’s a breathtaking landscape and Zayn wants to explore all of it.

Harry’s just watching him watch him, with a crooked smile like he knows something Zayn doesn’t. He kind of wants to fuck it out of him.

“Your turn.” Harry nods to Zayn’s boxers, tented by his erection.

Slowly, Zayn hooks his fingers into the waistband, one by each hipbone. He doesn’t particularly like this part, often feels exposed and unsure. But Harry asked for it, so he only stops for a second before pulling them down and stepping out.

Harry doesn’t stop to observe, like Zayn did, just immediately tugs on Zayn’s hand so they both fall down on the bed. He starts trailing his fingers along Zayn’s hipbones, and Zayn is getting goose bumps, his blood rushing. Harry is leaning over him where he’s lying down on his back. Zayn would feel vulnerable, but the only focal point in his mind is Harry’s fingers and where they might go next.

He isn’t in any way prepared when Harry lowers his head and licks a slow stripe down Zayn’s stomach, painfully close to his cock. Zayn doesn’t have to look down to know that he’s extremely hard, but he does, just to see Harry’s head near his crotch. Without thinking, he cards his fingers through Harry’s hair. It’s smooth and soft, like he uses conditioner.

“I like that.” Harry’s words buzz on Zayn’s skin, before he looks up and smiles. “Do you have lube?”

Right to the point. Harry keeps overwhelming Zayn, and Zayn loves it. He nods. “Hold on, I’ll get it.”

He leans to the side, to open the drawer on the bedside table. Harry’s holding his hips in a loose grip, following when Zayn tilts them to reach the tube he’s looking for.

“What did you have in mind?” If Harry can be straightforward, so can he.

Harry reaches his hand out for the lube and grins. “Getting us off,” he says simply. That’s not exactly an answer, but Zayn hands him the lube. His cock feels keen on anything at this point.

With the lube in one hand, Harry hoists himself up, so he’s sitting on Zayn’s thighs. He opens it and squeezes out a generous amount, all the while keeping eye contact with Zayn. This isn’t dirty yet but it feels more intensely erotic than most of Zayn’s sexual experiences. Harry rubs his hand together, warming the lube in it, and then he finally touches Zayn’s cock.

At the first touch, Zayn’s mouth drops open. But Harry only gives him a few lazy drags, and a light squeeze under the head, before he opens his hand to envelop his own cock as well. They’re held together perfectly by Harry’s hand, and everything is hard and soft. Zayn doesn’t realise he’s panting until he notices that his mouth is dry.

He looks up at Harry’s face, and the lamplight makes his hair look magical, like it exists on another plane. His hand is so big and warm, slick with lube and pre come. Zayn holds on to Harry’s thighs and watches his stomach contract as he moans. The sweetest sound in the world. Harry’s mouth is open, wild curls around his jawline, and his face looks serious and concentrated on what he’s doing.

Harry puts his free hand over Zayn’s on his thigh, and starts to rub their cockheads together sideways. Zayn has to close his eyes, not able to take in the delicious friction and looking at Harry at the same time.

Zayn reaches up to pinch Harry’s nipple, and with a low whine he arches his back and his cock starts spurting come, hitting his own stomach and dripping down on Zayn, who follows shortly after. It feels like it goes on forever, splash after splash of thick come. Harry releases his grip around them to drag his fingers through the come on Zayn’s stomach, and then puts them in his mouth, tasting it with a satisfied look on his face. Zayn feels a warm wave of arousal through his aftershocks; it looks sinful, Harry’s pink lips wrapped around his dirty fingers.

After they’ve cleaned themselves up a little with the tissues Zayn keeps next to the bed for precisely that reason, Harry lies down with a content sigh. Zayn follows him, feels their heated skin stick together and not caring.

He doesn’t want to stop touching Harry, lets his hand dance over the plane landscape that is Harry’s torso, dives in under his waist, lands briefly on a nipple and makes Harry shudder.

His skin feels the way a summer night smells. Zayn stills his hand and sits up.

“Where are you going?” Harry’s voice is slow and so, so inviting.

“Gotta write something down,” Zayn mumbles.

Harry shakes his head, but he’s smiling. Zayn finds the floor and walks on unsteady legs to his computer. He bends down over it; not bothering to sit down, and he can feel Harry’s eyes on his naked body as he types out the words he wanted to keep.

_His skin felt the way a summer night smells: ripe with life and promise, full of calming blues and warm pinks. His lips were in full bloom, and I grew when I touched him._

“Come back to bed.” Harry’s voice rasps the words, and Zayn almost keels over. Fuck it. He can write later.

“Sorry,” he says, and climbs over Harry, who’s starfished over the whole bed.

“No need to apologise.” Harry grabs Zayn’s hips when he’s above him, quietly asking him to stay there. “I just missed you, was all.”

Zayn sits on Harry’s thighs and their cocks are almost touching, but not quite. It’s devastatingly intimate. Harry looks up at him with a lazy smile on his face.

“Did you find my body inspiring, huh?”

An embarrassed smile erupts on Zayn’s face; he can feel its hotness spread to his chest and stomach. “Yes,” he answers truthfully, looking down on Harry’s stomach. It’s still glistening from the fluids it was covered in a little while ago. Zayn swallows. Harry pulls him down for a kiss, tasting like salt and come. They kiss lazily, Zayn on top of Harry, until Zayn yawns in Harry’s mouth and they break down in giggles.

“Sleep?” Harry asks with a content smile.

Zayn nods. “You can borrow a toothbrush.”

They go to sleep still naked, Zayn closest to the wall and Harry cuddled up to him. Harry falls asleep almost immediately, but Zayn can’t follow him just yet.

The view from his bed is the same as it’s always been since he moved in, but he sees it in a new light with Harry sleeping on his arm. It’s like Harry is the artwork that was missing, to make it go from a place to live to a home.

Zayn falls asleep with his hand carded in Harry’s hair.

He wakes up to Harry kissing his stomach. “Morning,” he rasps.

“Hello.” Harry looks up and smiles, a hint of dreams still in his eyes. “You taste like jizz.” And he licks Zayn’s stomach to demonstrate.

Zayn laughs. “Don’t lick me, then.”

“Nuh-uh.” Harry shakes his head. “That’s not an alternative.” Then he licks him again, and Zayn feels his cock start to stir.

Harry turns his head and catches a glance at the clock, and tenses immediately. “Shit, I have to go.” He jumps up and starts looking for his pants.

Zayn is still sleepy and not entirely sure what’s happening. “Where?” His voice is terrible, still soaked in dreams and Harry after last night.

“Work.” Harry pulls his shirt over his head quickly, not bothering to fix his hair afterwards. He still looks freshly fucked. “I’m sorry. I’ll text you. Okay?” His voice sounds it, too.

Zayn nods, begrudgingly. If he got to decide, Harry would always be in his bed, either with him or waiting as Zayn writes. Shit, that’s a horrible thought, what is wrong with him? Zayn shakes his head quickly to get rid of it.

“Have a good day,” he manages, to make up for his awful fantasy.

That makes Harry’s stressed expression lighten into a smile. “Thanks. You too.” He walks over to the bed, bends down and kisses Zayn’s forehead. “See you.”

And then he’s gone, and Zayn is incredibly awake; Harry’s scent still in his nostrils, Harry’s skin still in his hands, Harry’s voice still in his head.

It’s time to write.

**Chapter 7**

Zayn writes about Liam ending up in 1880s England, at a posh boys school, and getting off with a young man there. The vibrator Liam had with him is a big hit. Zayn is buzzing with all the words he has to describe this with, and lets himself get carried away with lots of details and adjectives. Revising is a problem for future Zayn; right now making the scene in his head come alive is all that matters.

He takes a short break to make a sandwich for lunch, and then gets back into it. It’s afternoon, the sun almost down, when his brain is burned out on creativity and tells him to stop.

He’s written seven thousand words.

That wouldn’t be a lot for some writers, supposedly Stephen King writes ten thousand every day, but for Zayn it is. His chapters are usually three to five thousand words long, and he likes that, likes writing with precise intensity. But recently he’s found himself with an abundance of words, and he’s not sure he wants to think about why.

He just accepts it for what it is.

“You wouldn’t believe what happened at work today!” Niall bursts into the kitchen to find Zayn sitting at the table, too hungry to make food and also to move.

“Try me.” He tries to smile to show his good will, but he’s too tired.

“This kid comes in and doesn’t look like much, a bit ratty if I’m honest, and asks to try the grand piano. So I say, ‘all right, but if you break it, you buy it’, and he straight up laughs at me!” Niall throws his hands out. “Unbelievable. So anyway, he sits down, beanie practically covering his eyes, and starts playing one of Chopin’s nocturnes. Flawlessly!” Niall shakes his head.

“Did he buy it?”

Niall sits down at the table opposite Zayn. “He did. Outrageous.” He shakes his head.

Zayn smiles. “You know what they say. Don’t judge a book–“

“I will pay you to shut up right now.” Niall groans. “I hate this.” He rubs his tummy. “Is there any food?”

“Nah.” Zayn shakes his head. “I got lost in writing and waited too long. I’m too hungry to cook.”

Niall sighs. “Me too, to be honest. Takeaway?”

“You read my mind.” Zayn raises a tired hand for Niall to high five before he gets his phone out and calls the thai place a few streets down.

Zayn wonders what Harry is doing.

So when they’ve eaten, and are lazily lounging on the sofa, he takes his phone out and texts Harry. It’s not a big deal, he tells himself. He doesn’t believe it, though.

‘what are you up to? (: xx’

They had sex. Zayn remembers it vividly, and it makes his full stomach flip. Niall gives him a look.

“How come you’re picking people up in coffee shops like a goddamn romcom, while I, a wonder of handsomeness and charm, am single?” Niall clicks his tongue while shaking his head. “It’s just not right.”

The nerves in Zayn give way to fondness for his friend. “I have no idea,” he says truthfully. “I’m with you, it’s outrageous.”

He’s just about to suggest that they make Niall an OKcupid account when his phone buzzes.

It’s a picture. It’s a picture of Harry. It’s a picture of Harry’s hand, covering what is clearly his hard cock straining against a pair of black boxers.

Zayn swallows. “I, uh. I’m sorry, but I have to… Go.”

Niall rolls his eyes. “Go sext your new boyfriend,” he huffs. “Don’t mind me.”

“We’ll talk about you some other time!” Zayn yells over his shoulder while hurrying to his room, one eye still on the picture Harry sent him.

‘why are u tryin to kill me’

He types with one hand, the other already inside his pants.

Harry responds with another picture. He’s fully naked in this one, and leaking. Zayn’s mouth is watering. He never got to suck Harry off and he wants that, so bad. With a great deal of self-restraint, he stills the hand he’s working himself with to tell Harry as much.

When they’ve both come, and Zayn is still smiling in the lingering pleasure, Harry surprises him with a serious text.

‘So when can I see you again? I hope this isn’t just sex, because it isn’t for me (although I do like that) xx’

Not what Zayn had counted on for post-sexting conversation. But he gets himself together and responds honestly.

‘defs not to me either. Want to see u again soon. Monday? Xx’

He takes a deep breath. This is moving so fast Zayn can’t even see the trees at the side of the road, it’s nothing but a green blur, but he doesn’t want to stop.

‘Monday’s great (: come to mine when you’re done writing? Xx’

**Chapter 8**

The neighbourhood Harry lives in is very loud. There’s a pub in the same house that Harry’s print-screened Google map has led Zayn to, but when he walks past it, there’s also a regular door. He texts Harry to let him in, and the lock buzzes open.

The stairs don’t appear to have been cleaned in a while, Zayn notes. He scans the signs on every door, until on the third floor he gets to ‘Tomlinson & Styles’, written in what appears to be glitter glue.

Harry opens the door before he has time to ring the doorbell, and Zayn pulls away in shock.

“Sorry!” Harry grins. “Didn’t mean to scare you. Come in.” And he gestures behind him.

Zayn walks into a pile of shoes, most of which consist of barely held together fabric. He’s in the process of removing his own and listening to Harry talk about his weekend, when an unfamiliar voice cuts in.

“Oi!” The voice is loud, and Zayn quickly turns around to face the person who he can only assume is Tomlinson. “You didn’t tell me we were having guests, Harold.”

Tomlinson is short, wearing yoga pants and a large Stone Roses t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, and stands with his feet far apart as he looks Zayn up and down.

“This the writer, then?” He unfolds his arms to offer Zayn a handshake. Zayn takes it. “I’m Louis, the better half of Harry here.”

“Heyyyy,” Harry protests.

“Zayn,” Zayn says, and looks Louis in the eye for a moment. Louis’ handshake is hard and quick, letting go of Zayn’s hand just before it would have started to hurt.

“Nice to meet you.” Louis flashes his teeth and fixes his fringe with a swift movement.

“Would you excuse us, Louis?” Harry sounds annoyed, and Zayn isn’t sure what to do. Louis just laughs.

“Of course I would excuse you,” he says, exaggeratedly polite. “He’s all yours.” He gestures toward Zayn, and Zayn feels a flush rise on his cheeks.

Louis turns on his heel and disappears into the flat.

“Sorry about that.” Harry smiles apologetically. “Louis can be a little intense if you don’t know him.”

“I like him.” Zayn doesn’t know why, but he does; Louis seems like a force of nature, too. But while Harry is earth, Louis is fire.

Harry sighs. “Most people do. I’ve had people who I’ve brought home ditch me to shag Louis instead.”

Zayn can’t stop the little laugh that escapes him. “I’m sorry, but that’s… And Louis did that?”

“It’s not that big of a deal.” Harry shrugs. “Louis is fit. I get it. He always asked me if it was okay, so.”

Zayn doesn’t quite understand their friendship, but if Harry’s fine then so is he.

It turns out that to get to Harry’s room, they have to walk through the tiny living room, where Louis evidently lives. He’s on a bed in one of the corners, t-shirt shamelessly pulled up to scratch at his stomach. Louis waggles his eyebrows at them, and Harry flips him off before shutting the door behind them.

Zayn is in Harry’s room.

Usually when he gets to someone’s room for the first time, he checks out the bookcase first. There is no bookcase in Harry’s room. There’s a narrow shelf filled with cd’s, a few vinyls in a box in a corner, and two guitars. On the desk there’s a purple ukulele resting atop what looks like a textbook. Beside it is a laptop, open to Facebook.

“It’s a little messy,” Harry says.

“I like it. It’s very you.”

That makes Harry smile. “Thank you.”

The bed is unmade, the dark blue sheets visible under the cream white covers. Harry sits down on it, so Zayn does the same. There’s a Florence + the Machine poster on the wall above them, which looks like it’s been torn down from somewhere outside.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Harry nods slowly. “Go ahead.”

Zayn takes a deep breath. “What’s your job that you won’t tell me about?”

“Oh.” Harry looks down. “That.” He clears his throat. “It might sound a bit weird, which is why I don’t tell a lot of people. But I suppose… That you can know.”

That makes Zayn feel oddly proud, and he hasn’t even heard the secret yet.

“I’m kind of like a camboy,” Harry starts, and Zayn’s eyes widen. “Except instead of sex I offer love and friendship, respectively.”

What?

“How does that even work?” Zayn tries to not sound judgmental.

“I video chat with people, and tell them nice things. I love you, I’m proud of you, things like that.” Harry looks up at Zayn, eyes wide as if he’s begging for something.

His voice sounds so nice saying those things. “That’s so nice.” The words are soft in Zayn’s mouth.

Harry smiles. “Really? You think?”

Zayn nods. “Unconventional in the best way.”

And then Harry kisses him, hands twisted in the sheets and hair tickling Zayn’s cheek.

*

When Zayn gets home, he writes all night again. Liam runs into the Harry character again and this time, he recognises Liam from the other lives in which they met. Zayn feels like he’s in a dream, fingers moving on the keys and typing things he didn’t know he was thinking. The outside world is incredibly far away.

**Chapter 9, 10, and 11**

After that, they fall into a kind of routine. They meet up about twice a week, and afterwards Zayn writes. Harry rolls his eyes when Zayn turns down staying the night because he wants to go home to write. Niall sighs when Zayn tells him about it.

But he writes, and the sooner he gets one chapter done, the sooner he can see Harry again. When he puts the last period on chapter eleven, wherein Liam almost loses his curly-haired friend in a witch burning, he gets on a bus to Harry’s. It’s drizzling rain, the type of weather that always had Zayn writing poems when he was a teenager. Now he listens to Adele when it happens, and almost misses his stop.

Harry, who’s home alone, greets him with a cup of soup and a pair of socks he knitted himself.

“With your own two hands?” Zayn quirks an eyebrow at Harry, who nods proudly.

“I am a man of many talents.” He says it sarcastically as he curls his hands around his own mug with soup, but Zayn is amazed.

“Thank you,” is all Zayn can think of saying as he puts the socks on.

When they’ve finished their soup, they lie on Harry’s bed and talk about nothing in particular, sleepy musings concerning if ants have thoughts or if there are fishes who are vegetarians. One of those threads lulls out, and they’re silent. Zayn’s got his head on Harry’s chest, listening to his heartbeat, when Harry seems to remember something.

“Hey,” he says, suddenly serious. “Louis and I are performing at an open mic night soon. You should come.”

Zayn lifts his head so he can watch Harry’s face. Harry looks back at him with widened eyes.

“Okay,” Zayn says and smiles. “I’d love to.”

Harry’s face relaxes. “Good.” He strokes his hand over Zayn’s back, and Zayn lies his head back down on Harry’s chest. He falls asleep there, feet still hot and cozy inside Harry’s knitted socks.

**Chapter 12**

Louis is actually a great singer. Zayn doesn’t know why he’s surprised, but he is.

The pub where they’re performing is absolutely tiny, called The Anchor Something (Zayn isn’t sure), but every pair of eyes in there is on them.

“Hello,” Harry drawls into the mic, and Zayn smiles. He’s got a lovely microphone voice. “Nice of you to listen to us for a bit. We’re Harry and Louis, and this next song is one you might know… It’s called Black Magic.”

There are a few spread cheers, and Zayn joins them. He’s heard Harry play that song, but he wasn’t sure if he was being ironic or if he genuinely liked the sugary pop tune. Supposedly he was being serious.

In Harry and Louis’ rendition, though, it’s a more somber affair. Harry plays the ukulele, Louis plays a little keyboard, and they sing a few lines each of the verses and then harmonize on the chorus.

When the song is over, Zayn claps his hands enthusiastically. He can see Harry spotting him, and he raises his beer and smiles at him. Harry waves awkwardly while Louis introduces their next song.

They only play four songs, because that’s all they’re allowed, and as soon as Harry’s got his ukulele packed away in a tiny ukulele-shaped bag he makes his way over to Zayn. Zayn can see people noticing him, eyeing his slender legs emphasized by heeled boots.

“Hi.” Harry smiles. “Thanks for coming.”

Zayn wants to kiss him, but he stops his hand half-way to Harry’s arm and lets it drop again. They’ve never done PDA before. He’s been quiet for too long now, and before he can fix that, Louis turns up.

“Heyyy!” Louis slings an arm around Harry and looks Zayn up and down. “I see your boyfriend came, after all. How sweet.” He smiles a smile that Zayn isn’t sure how to read.

Boyfriend? Zayn nods. “’Course I came, I was invited.”

Harry looks at him with fucking galaxies in his eyes.

“So what did you think?” Louis taps his fingers on Harry’s shoulder, his eyes fixed on Zayn.

Zayn swallows. “Really good. You’ve both got great voices.”

Louis’ hand stills. “Thanks,” he says, and he sounds sincere now. It seems like Zayn passed the test.

“Would you like a drink?” Zayn nods toward the bar. “On me, as congratulations.”

“That’s very nice of you,” Louis says and unwraps himself from Harry, “but I’ve got to get home. Early lecture tomorrow. You two have fun, though!” He winks. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”

Harry laughs, and hugs him. Louis stops for a second in front of Zayn, and then holds his fist out for Zayn to bump. Zayn hasn’t done a fist-bump since sixth form, but he feels like this is another test, so he bumps his knuckles against Louis’.

“Bye!” Louis calls, and then he’s out.

“What about you?”

Harry raises his eyebrows. “What?”

“If Louis’ got an early lecture tomorrow, don’t you too?”

“Oh. Nah, he’s a year above me.” Harry smiles. “I’m all free.” And he steps closer to Zayn, into his personal space. Right where Zayn wants him.

“Would you like a drink, then?” Zayn’s beer is gone by now, he could have another. Or not.

“Or,” Harry says slowly and puts a hand on Zayn’s waist, “we could go to yours.” He leans in to whisper in Zayn’s ear. “If you know what I mean.”

That’s such a cheesy line, it makes Zayn giggle, but he’s not unaffected by Harry’s low voice in his ear. It’s unfair.

So he disposes of his glass on an empty table, and they hold hands on the bus home. Harry’s other hand is tracing the inseam of Zayn’s jeans, making him squirm in his seat with the promise of what’s to come.

After, in Zayn’s bed, Harry rubs his thumb over Zayn’s nipple and says, “Louis called you my boyfriend.”

Zayn waits, but nothing else comes, so he nods. “He did.”

“And you didn’t correct him.” Harry looks up at him, lashes still highlighted by mascara since he was on stage.

This is a defining moment, and Zayn should be more nervous than he is. “I didn’t think he was wrong,” he says.

Harry smiles. “Okay.”

*

Chapter twelve is about communication, and Zayn writes it with only one person on his mind.

**Chapter 13**

The thirteenth chapter takes a long time to write. Not because it’s unlucky, but because Zayn lacks the self-discipline to stop touching Harry for longer than an hour at the time. It’s two weeks of haphazard sentences and drawn-out fucks. One night Harry fingers him until he comes untouched; he was right about Harry’s fingers. Heaven and hell, he’s floating and burning at the same time, and he’s so in love.

**Chapter 14**

Chapter fourteen is written in Zayn’s room while Harry lounges on the bed in boxers, legs looking slender yet juicy, luxurious locks flowing over the pillow. He’s listening to music, and Zayn can hear his mouth move as he mouths the words. Zayn smiles at his keyboard and writes on. It’ll be time to revise soon, but first he’s going to let the draft rest. His fingers are restless on the keys, longing to get back to Harry’s body.

He’s not sure when Harry went from inspiration to distraction, but he’s sure that he doesn’t mind.

**The End**

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. :)


End file.
